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Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Just to be clear from the outset: it's not that I would've been glad if Nick were in jail, because of course I wouldn't. I only would've preferred it to what seemed like the alternative at hand.

(Nick: I'm sure you understand, sweetheart.)

OK. So.

My mom left an urgent message on my voicemail this morning. “Lisa, call me as soon as you can.”

No details, nothing. I used to be used to these gut-wrenching messages, back when my dad was alive. My body went cold. This sent me into a complete panic.

You see, when Jordan woke up this morning, he was cry-y. He had a bad cough. He had a fever. He was clearly sick. Or, as my mother has always put it, ever since I was a kid, “feeling puny.”

I took his temperature. We have this digital thermometer, and he used to be belligerent about it. I mean, it is a little weird to expect a toddler to sit still while you place something on his forehead and run it across.

It makes me feel very old and all, “I walked uphill in the snow both ways to school!” when I think about how my parents used to shake down the mercury and then you’d have to sit very still with it under your tongue or your armpit. Which was at least not your anus.

This little electronic thing is easy.

Anyway, to entice Jordan into staying still while we take his temperature, we play this game. I’ll ask Nick if he wants me to take his number. And then we’ll make a big deal about it. “Oh! 97.8! What a number!”

Then Jordan is all, "Look at my number! Look at my number!"

Also, Nick always runs cool, which is so weird to me since he can pretty much walk around in the snow naked and still be warm. I mean, he doesn’t, and wouldn't, in case you live in our neighborhood and worry. But I betcha $5 he could.

Anyway, Jordan had this little fever. Not so high. But that, coupled with the cough and his general listlessness made us very glad he could stay home and snuggle on the couch with Nana. We dosed him up with grape Tylenol and told my mom to call if she needed either of us.

So back to Betty’s voicemail. I had a busy morning, and didn’t look at my phone until several hours after she’d left the message. I figured she’d talked to Nick in the meantime, but still, I flipped out.

I was sure Jordan had taken this massive turn for the worse. As I was calling back, I had visions of reaching Betty in the emergency room of Children’s Hospital, my boy all hooked up to an IV.

I do sometimes wonder if I don't have a little PTSD from my dad. I don't say that lightly.

So she answered quickly, and I said, “What’s wrong? What happened? You said to call you immediately!”

“Well. Nick’s uncle called to say that Nick was in jail.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“He’s not. What?”

“I thought something happened to Jordan. Wait, what?”

Nick’s 96-year old grandfather got a call this morning, ostensibly from Nick. He was in jail and needed $2,000 as soon as possible.

(Relief!)

And so his grandfather immediately called one of Nick’s uncles. Who then tried and tried to reach Nick. And then called our house. So Betty then called Nick’s office. She left two messages. B

When Nick returned from a meeting, he had two urgent messages from his uncle, and two from Betty. He was sure his grandfather had died.

By the time I spoke with her, she'd spoken with Nick, and he'd called his uncle.

Not from Mexican jail. And he didn't need money.

And Jordan? He was still feeling puny, so at his request they went to “the cupcake store,” AKA my favorite Korean Jewish deli, which apparently has cupcakes. And then he asked for a nap.

In other words, no toddlers are on the brink of death, and nobody's shot a man in Reno, or, rather, Tijuana, and wound up in the slammer. I mean, nobody I'm currently the mother of or married to.

Friday, January 27, 2012

So, when you walk in the front door after work and the first thing your mother says is, "I have to talk to you about something," it makes you a little nervous.

Here's what happened.

You know how Jordan has become particularly interested in poop? Which just means that now he fits in with the rest of the family? Except Betty, who used to regularly say when I was growing up, "Can we please have no anal talk at the dinner table tonight?"

Poor woman.

So, anyway, he has.

We've been very open about all of it, in an encouragement of heading towards potty training. We let him flush the toilet, which he loves.

Now, he spends two days a week at home with my mom, plus a lot of time in the evenings and on weekends. They're tight. And typically, at least in our house, if it's just you and Jordan, you leave the bathroom door open when you go in.

It's just safer. Because Lord only knows what he'll get into left to his own devices.

So that particular day, Jordan ambled on into the bathroom and said, "What are you making, Nana?"

This is his new thing. What are you making?

As it turned out, she was engaged in an activity of supreme interest to our little friend. And so he marched over, pushed her forward on the toilet, exclaiming, "Move! I want to see!"

He wants to see the poop come out. I am not kidding you.

So Betty said, "You know I would do anything for Jordan. But this is just beyond what I can handle."

It's beyond what any of us really want to handle. So now, here's what you have to do.

You wait until Jordan walks out of the room. And then, making sure he's not looking in your direction, you scurry towards the bathroom, closing the door behind you. He can't yet turn the handle.

Sometimes it all goes fine. But sometimes he walks back in, notices your absence, and he suspiciously inquires about it. If responses are vague, he makes a beeline for the bathroom door.

If he finds it closed, he bangs. He wails, "What are you making?" Bang! Bang! "I neeeeed to come in! OPEN! I NEEED TO COME IN!"

His distress is palpable. He's pretty singular of purpose and hard to distract from this endeavor.

It doesn't help that the spectators in the house are supremely amused by the whole thing. Who wants to be laughed at when you have a serious objective?

So far, it's only at home, and guests are exempt. Let's hope he grows out of it before it gets all awkward and we have to warn his prom date or something.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

I know I'm an ingrate in that you all said such nice things on my last super-angsty post...and I've not yet thanked any of you for it. Thank you. I'll comment back soon, I will.

I mean, not that you're on pins and needles. But I want to. I just...haven't.

It's been one of those crappo weeks that claws at your self-esteem from multiple angles. The kind of weeks were if one weren't pregnant, one might go home at night after work and open a bottle of wine and sit in the corner and swill the whole damn thing. And do it again the next night. Which I don't think I've actually done since I was single, now that I think about it.

It sounds pretty good to me, actually.

Anyway.

Tuesday started with a fight with Nick, and then turned into a day in which my abilities at work were called into question even though it was a misunderstanding and not something I hadn't actually been on top of and I just felt fucking miserable all day long. Even if I don't love my job every minute, I'm a first born rule follower. I get my stuff done. If people think I'm doing a bad job, I feel like shit.

Wednesday began at the midwives with MY WEIGHT. The nurse didn't even have me pee first!

This time I thought I'd grown (personally, I mean) and that I could take it. But no matter how many times I tell myself YOU'RE PREGNANT, I still cannot take the numbers in stride.http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

I've now hit the weight I was freshman year of college. When I spent most of the time sitting on my dorm room floor, crying, eating chocolate, and not being able to fit into any clothes but sweats.

Weight gain for me is inextricably linked with misery. And panic. And self-flagellation. I cannot handle the numbers. I should never know them.

I emailed Nick while waiting for the midwife to come in. "I'm a big fat cow. Here's proof: LARGE (for me) NUMBER."

And then I was all, "But I had my sneakers on. (It's true - the thought of relacing was just too much.) And I'm wearing a very heavy necklace. Oh, plus, I had rocks in my bra."

Here's what makes me so mad at myself about it. My midwives are totally happy with where I am. I'm doing the things I need to do for my own body and for a healthy baby. I'm eating well. I'm not eating crap. And I'm exercising.

I'm not going to cut down on my food intake, because that's just stupid and unhealthy in pregnancy. I'm so totally within the guidelines. Except by my panicked calculation, at this rate, I'm going to be heavier at the end than I was last time. When I was one week overdue.

Which is fine. It's still within reasonable range. Technically, It's all fine. Really.

And still, there's this little asshole Danger! Danger! Fix it! voice in my head telling me how fat I am.

Monday, January 23, 2012

Sometimes I have to drag my own self down there kicking and screaming, but I'm still working out in our office building's gym at least a couple times a week. You know, the gym with the shiny red button.

So last week it was brought to my attention that my stomach is roughly the same size as the 15-pound medicine ball. Although what it really feels like is this:Now, I've tried to be a lot more measured in this pregnancy about what I say on LG, partly because I got berated in my Jordan pregnancy for complaining about how fat and gross I felt. I mean, I got a lot of support, too, so it's not just fear of people thinking I'm an asshole that's holding me back.

Although naturally, I'd rather people didn't think I was an asshole, if I had my druthers.

But I've also tempered my complaining nature because fuck, it took so much time, so much work, and so much money to get to this pregnancy. And part of me is scared that if I'm not grateful enough, it'll get taken away.

Don't step on the crack. Don't walk under ladders. Don't break a mirror. That sort of thing.

Thankfully, with Jordan, I didn't realize how fragile it all can be. I'm well fucking aware with this one. And so, at least publicly, I've tried to hold it in. Hey, look at me with the medicine ball belly!

But you guys, I hit a huge wall this weekend.

Sunday morning I was all kinds of mad at Nick for not loving this sweater I'd gotten him. And he kept saying, "Why are you getting so angry?" Which just made me angrier.

And so I snapped, "Because it's so hard to find XXL sweaters that actually fit you and this one actually fits and I AM SO TIRED AND OLD AND HAGGARD AND UGLY AND I HATE MY BODY AND I HATE MY FACE AND I HAAAAAATE BEING PREGNAAAAAAAAANT. I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT."

At which point I just leaned over and started sobbing onto the kitchen counter. Like the snuffling, hiccuping, gasping for breath sobbing of abject despair.

Nick curled me in his arms and said he thinks I'm beautiful, and he patted my just-highlighted hair and said, very sweetly, "I think you're beautiful. And I like your new hair." (He's a good man, that one.)

And Jordan came over and asked me if I wanted to put some animals in his backhoe. Which is pretty much like saying I love you so much.

I'm loved, and I'm lucky. I love the family I have. And I'm lucky to be having another baby. I'm grateful, I am. Really and truly.

I just suck at the pregnant. And the pregnant, coupled with the sped-up aging it seems to be doing to me? Super mindfuck.

I am the opposite of glowy. My skin and my hair and my nails are so dry. I have 500 more wrinkles than when I started. When did I get so old and wrinkly?

It's one thing to feel fat and full and exhausted and achey and uncomfortable all the time. But it just feels so unfair to have to feel so hideous on top of it. And so old. So fucking old. It kills my self-esteem.

I feel all superficial saying that, because I am so much more interested in what people are like than what they look like. But it's true. I need to feel attractive in some way, shape or form. And I don't. I just don't.

Friday, January 20, 2012

And so, while we do set our alarm nightly - the alarm that to my surprise doesn't go off in a tiny little model of our house at the police station - I sleep with my cell phone right next to my bed. Even though we have a land line right there. Just in case of some unexpected calamity like someone smashing a window and cutting the phone lines or a vampire attack or what-have-you.

I have always been afraid of whatever might be lurking in the shadows. Also, I have always been Team Jacob, despite the alabaster vampire loins and rainbow sparkly skin.

So anyway, Nick has been calling me on my cell first thing in the morning to wake me up.

And this morning, when the house phone, which we almost never use, rang, I was surprised.

I answered, and Betty said, "Lisa?"

"Hi, Mom!"

"Hi! Where are you?"

"In the kitchen. Where are you?"

"I just got up."

"So what are you calling about?"

"I'm not calling. You called."

"I didn't call you. You called me. The kitchen phone just rang."

"Well, my phone just rang, too."

And then it dawned on me to stop talking...which gave me a chance to hear my husband's slightly fainter voice in the background saying, "Lisa! Betty! Lisa! I'M CALLING YOU."

Oh. Hi!

Now that there are two of us, this is probably even more true. Poor man.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

I don't mean that in a bad way. I think you're acting like a very typical two-year old. And the fact is, you have good reason to think the world revolves around you. Very candidly, we're all about you, all the time. We just love you so much.

The other day Dad asked me when I thought boys grow out of being so self-absorbed, and I said, "I think right about...when they die."

He didn't think it was as funny as I did.

But the truth is, while you're very MEMEMEMEME!, you're also very sweet and thoughtful. You regularly go around the room and ask us how we're doing, and you wait for each of us to reply before moving on.

"You OK, Mama?" "Yes, thank you."

"Are you OK, Nana?" "I'm OK, Jordan."

"Daddy, are you OK, Daddy?" "Yes. Are you OK?"

"I'm OK."

You've also begun giving praise for tasks well done. The other night you told me, "Mama, you did a very good job with your dinner!"

Or you'll say things like, "Daddy put clothes on me. He did a very good job."

And while you don't thank us regularly for doing things like giving you a glass of milk, you'll gush about something out of the blue. Like when Nana got home from the store and you inspected her purchases and said, "Oh, thank you for buying me more oatmeal, Nana!"

"Thank you for putting on my warm socks, Mama!"

As you talk more and more, we get a bigger picture of what's going on in your mind. It's really cool.

Your dad takes you on weekend adventures to places like the firehouses around town, and to Rock Creek to throw stones in the river. The other day he took you to the stables down there. And these are things you talk about for days and days afterward.

He also tends to buy you a treat on every adventure, so now you also ask to go to The Treat Store.

The other night you were up when we peeked in on you around ten, and so Dad sat with you in the dark while you chattered away. You listed all the places we don't climb because we could get hurt.

"We don't climb on the dresser because we could fall."

"And we don't climb on the elephant shelf because we could fall down and that would hurt." (The shelf way up high on the wall with mirrored Indian elephants which are specifically up high because I'm not inclined to let J destroy them. And now I know he's scheming the scaling of the wall to get to them.)

It turns out, my darling, that you've given thought to climbing on every single object in the house. Even the precipitously high shelves and cabinets. Good to know, I guess, although I don't know what's to be done about it.

I'm glad you're still in a crib and in sleep sacks, which hamper your leg-over-the-side abilities. But not for long...

It's not all sunshine and puppy breath, however.

You've almost cut out the whining, but you've replaced it with hitting and sometimes even biting when you're super frustrated. I can occasionally head you off by asking if you want to make Mama cry. And you stop and look as if you're going to burst into tears yourself. "I don't want to make Mama cry."

But the other day you bit me hard enough to leave a bruise on my arm. When you get into the windmill hitting, I know you're just so worked up...but I don't know what to do about it. Your dad can hold you at arm's length until you calm down. And we can do time-outs.

And last weekend I was carrying you down the hall towards your room, which you were pissed about, and you started hitting and clocked me on the side of the head. You're now so big and strong, and it hurt terribly, and I dropped you. I dropped you onto your feet, but you still fell down, and it made you hysterical.

This wasn't my goal - I just wanted you away from where you could hit my face again. I know there must be constructive approaches; I have to do some research on this.

Those are the less common occurrences, though. Mostly you're entertaining and delightful. Not always cooperative, necessarily, particularly where bedtime is concerned. And often exhausting.

As the head of our day care said, when I told her how tired I am, and how adding another is kind of daunting: "Most children are not quite as active as Jordan."

But you are still our biggest joy, and our greatest source of amusement and delight. Right up there with Downton Abbey.

But anyway, because of my last post, I didn't want the Investigator's Wife to think that I had only seen cats with hemorrhoids. Now that I've typed that, I don't know why it matters. I mean, what if I had only seen hemerrhoidal cats? But there you have it. I'm pretty sure the cat anuses I've seen have been normal.

Also also, the Parisian cat, Gaspard, has stopped with the rapey behavior. One has to assume it was just brief post-ball-snipping madness. Since he's totally calmed down and it doesn't seem to be affecting his self-esteem, I didn't suggest neuticles.

But back to the merkin at hand. My lovely friend Jessica emailed this morning to say, "Whenever I see something about merkins, I think of you. I'm not sure what this says about our friendship, but I suspect it's something magical and delightful."

I'm certain it does. Seriously.

Anyway, she sent me this link, which, as the topic might suggest, should be opened either not at work, or only if you have colleagues who don't freak out about pubic wigs. Also, for the anti-fur among you, it could really piss you off.

Although I suppose it would be a good use of fur scraps, since you really wouldn't need much, even for a rather large merkin. I also saw an article about a designer using road kill in her creations. Her take is that if she weren't putting them to use, they'd be going into landfills. And she makes some lovely, dramatic pieces.

Drawback for the merkin set, however: it would be very hard to market roadkill in your pants. Which is the opposite of sexy.

And I really have nothing to say about pickles. I just like the word gherkin, and it rhymes! I do always get confused by the H in there, though.

Friday, January 13, 2012

Here Mama, I'll hold it in for you!I'm definitely bigger this time, but while I could be wrong, I don't think I'm significantly bigger at this point than I was with Jordan, but one thing is certain: my belly button is firmly in what my friend Maude terms the "cat asshole" stage.

It got there fast. It's been there for a while. It grosses me out.See?

I'm not sure why I find it so much more horrifying than other icky pregnancy-related things, but I do.

So naturally, when anyone asks if my belly button is poking out yet, I say, "Oh, it's so disgusting! Wanna see?"

(I promise, this will not be my response when people start to ask if I'm dilated yet. Which they will, if history is any guide. It seriously becomes hallway conversation.)

Jordan is the only one who actually wants to see. He's fascinated by the state of my belly button. He points to it and pokes it and says, "That's where the baby girl will come out!"

Uhh, sort of.

And then he lifts his own shirt to show his belly button.

This morning I put his hands on my tummy while she was moving. I said, "That's your baby sister! Can you feel her moving?"

He nodded. He inspected my belly button very closely. And then said, "Pretty soon, she's going to come visit us!"

Oh, and back on the cat assholes, or rather, an asshole cat...

My friend Kristin in Paris is having this cat problem. She had her male cat snipped yesterday, and as soon as he got home he was all out of control and rapey, totally humping and molesting the other cat.

So she locked him in the bathroom and posted it on Facebook. And poured herself some wine.

She was worried maybe they snipped the wrong thing. I thought it might be post-surgery insanity (does that happen?). Or do male cats go through a rapey period after being de-balled? I suggested sedatives. Seriously, sedate the shit out of that fucker.

Not being a cat person, I wanted to suggest shoving him into a box and heading to Le Animal Shelter tout suite. However, I refrained.

Thursday, January 12, 2012

I always thought boy names were harder than girl names, but now I find it to be just the opposite.

I was so certain that this kid would be another boy. And Nick and I had several names we agreed we really liked. And they sounded nice with his last name.

And it was nearly settled! So easily!

Except that we're having a girl.

What I will tell you very candidly is that while I am not remotely secretive (I know you just laughed at the obviousness of that statement), I'm not going to talk about whatever name we choose until she's born. For two reasons.

One, because there are always people who find fault with it. You mention what you're thinking about, and they don't like it and they wrinkle their noses and tell you so and why and what's wrong with it. And two, with this one, the odds are we will be making our final really absolute decision at the hospital, with the way it's going.

Here's the thing. Years and years and forever and as long as I can remember ago, I decided that one day I would have a girl, and I would name her after my grandmother. It was just fact. This is what I would do.

And then I was certain I was going to die alone. But in the moments when I wasn't, I was going to have a girl, and I was going to name her after my grandmother. No matter who I married.

Also. If you know me you know that I am firmly of the opinion that whoever carries the kid around for 9+ months (and wrecks their abs and/or vagina, anus, internal organs, God knows whatever else) has final say-so in the naming. I mean this in a hand-to-God, stare-you-down, do not fuck with me kind of way.

So the girl name has been settled for years.

However.

Now my grandmother's name is popular, as is the nickname for her name. Very very popular. Apparently everyone is naming their daughter after my grandmother.

And while I still love the name, here's the deal: I have been named Lisa my whole life. There were lots of other Lisas when I was growing up. It is not remotely interesting. I have never been particularly fond of it.

When we came up with Jordan's name, which sounds great with Nick's last name, I genuinely considered ditching Lisa and becoming Jordan Nick'slastname. I thought about it, I talked about it, and several friends ridiculed me for it.

And then I gave the name to Jordan and we can't both be Jordan Nick'slastname. That would just be too weird.

So I'm still Lisa and there you have it.

I mean, Lisa is not offensive. I don't think it's ugly. It's just so fucking boring. (No offense, other Lisas.) The best thing I can say about it is that no matter where I've gone, no matter what language, people have been able to pronounce it. (And in Japanese class, it didn't matter, because we called each other by our last names, with "-san" attached.)

So I am determined NOT to have a girl with the same name as everyone else.

Nick doesn't have an issue with it, because there weren't other Nicholases around when he was growing up. His biggest issue with his name was the McDonald's commercial Nicholas Pickle-less. But that was short-lived.

I love Nicholas and Nick. Both good, solid, non-boring names. In my opinion.

Here are names either Nick or I like, but we won't be using, either because one of us doesn't like them or they have other issues:

Autumn (issues: Fall makes me depressed. Which is too bad, because Nick loves the name and it's his favorite season.)Carol-Anne (issues: Over my dead body.)Cleo/Clio (issues: Nick hates it.)Emma (issues: Very popular; also, Madame Bovary.)Gaia (issues: Nick hates it.)January (issues: I hate winter; nickname Jan; also, January Jones - terrible actress.)Ophelia (issues: meets a tragic end; possible nickname Oph, which sounds like "oaf" which, just no.)Persephone (issues: Stuck in the underworld; nickname Percy would be awful.)Phaedra (issues: Lisa, what is it with you and the Greek names? Um, at least it's not Terpsichore.)

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

I always aim to post more photos or drawings because they spruce things up but most of the time it just doesn't happen. Even though I love it when other people add pictures to their posts.

But I'm trying.

And sometimes I feel like one needs evidence. Last night I walked home past the pee bottle and decided that I'd walk by again this morning, and if it was still sitting outside the wrought-iron fence of the nice building, I'd call 311 and see if pee removal was under the purview of DC government.However. When I walked by this morning, the pee bottle was in the yard. Meaning, well, two things. One, that someone picked it up and chucked it over the fence. Ew. And two, it's now clearly the lawn-owner's problem, and not DC's. Right?

Also. I'm still bummed about my glove. See how cute?And finally, these are some of the animals Jordan has a creche on. If you come over, you are likely to wind up with at least one or two in your pocket or your shoe.Also, I damn near pulled off my pants on my walk home last night, and only modesty/fear of being arrested/bigger fear of people pointing and laughing kept me from doing so. Because my maternity coat only comes down past my bum.

I don't know if all the laundry detergent didn't wash out, or what the deal was, but they were so burny! It was kind of like the insides were covered with shards of glass that were making itty bitty cuts with every step.

Which made me think back to my tobacco dipping days and how apparently they put fiberglass into dip to cut your gums so the nicotine gets in there nice and fast. Which is why it's such a quick little buzz.

Those days are long past, though. And there weren't that many of them. Fun, though.

But last night with my fiberglass pants I was seriously fantasizing about the chilly air on my thighs and it took every ounce of my willpower not to just pull them right off and pretend I had on the whitest tights one could imagine and that I thought they were pants.

As soon as I got in the door I stepped out of them and dabbed my legs with water. I couldn't bear to put on more pants, and all evening Jordan kept saying, "Mama, you have no pants!"

That's right, honey. And when you grow up, you can have no pants whenever you want. And eat cake for breakfast every day if you so choose.

Then Nick came home and said, "You have no pants!" I briefly considered feigning surprise but was too tired.

I'm not sure what the deal was there. I started getting hurty little red bumps but they didn't get any worse. Today my skin is a little aggravated, but not terribly. And if it were laundry detergent, wouldn't you think my shirt would be bugging me as well? It's not like your legs are the tenderest parts of your body.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

What I can't remember is if I still had my gloves on when I saw the bottle of pee.

Wait. Let me back up.

Here's what happened. I lost one of my delightful turquoise gloves. Betty gave them to me, and I've been wearing them for years, and they fit perfectly even though I have such short figures that most gloves have too much room at the ends, and they're turquoise!

And now, now I only have one.

I've lost one of them three times, and always gotten it back. A friend who had happened to stop by just after I lost one the first time had spotted it down the street on the way to our house. The next time, I'd fortunately dropped it in my office. The third time, a man in a crosswalk saw me drop it.

Thrice-lost...nobody says fourth time is a charm, do they?

Anyway, it's not that the bottle of urine figures largely into the story, except that I was retracing my path to work, and it occurred to me that it would be helpful to be able to remember when I took off my gloves. Before or after the pee at 16th and O?

Typically, I would know exactly where I walked, because until recently I walked the exact same way back and forth every day. So Nick was wondering why I went down 16th Street, I said so I wouldn't get kidnapped.

Anyway. Sexual assault is not funny. And as friends have said, I'm the kind of oblivious person who will wind up dragged into the back of a van. So I decided it was probably best to mix up my route.

Good for not getting kidnapped. Bad in terms of retracing steps.

Not that I think I'm all kinds of important and likely to get premeditatedly kidnapped. Just, more, who knows? Plus it's boring to walk the same way every day when you know where you're going.

But back to the pee. A bottle of urine! A large bottle. Like one of those big glass orange juice type bottles.

I mean, I didn't examine it closely or open it and smell it. But I have seen plenty of pee in a cup at this point, and in fact almost knocked an entire shelf of pee-filled cups on myself, thank you very much, and I can tell you that this, my friends, is a bottle of strong pee. I use the present tense because it was still there this morning, and I'm going to doubt it's been picked up by a passer-by.

You know, that makes me think maybe I should've peed on my gloves as a precaution. Although then I'd have been wearing urine-soaked gloves. So forget it.

But it made me wonder. Such volume! Was this multiple pees' worth? Or does someone have that large a bladder? Is it vendetta pee? I figure if you were homeless, you'd just pee in an alley, no? That seems to be the norm in our neighborhood.

Seriously. We're always saying, "Jordan, don't touch that! It has pee pee on it!" Because we are certain it does.

So basically, if you see a turquoise glove, could you grab it and let me know?

Thursday, January 05, 2012

There's one from Peru that's made of carved stone, with a million little white and black stone animals - mainly myriad sheep and llamas. Jordan saw them and immediately appropriated them ALL. He needed the entire flock.

Baby Jesus? Not of remote interest. Sheep! Llamas! NEEEEEED.

As with most things Jordan wants, Betty was fine with it. They're now his own personal stone herd.

We find these animals everywhere. He loads them into his backhoe. He puts them in bags and carries them around. He slips them into pocket - his and everyone else's. He transfers them from basket to boat to dump truck and back again.

This morning I had to dump a number of them out of my commuting sneakers before I could put them on.

I said to Nick, "He sure loves those animals."

"I wouldn't necessarily say he loves them. I'd say he has a creche on them."

Wednesday, January 04, 2012

I went to Costco on my day off - Monday, January 2. As did 800 million other people.

The nightmarishly packed Costco parking lot, the shoving giant carts through giant aisles engorged with people staggering around like they've had head injuries, the thronging hordes clogging every single sample-offering intersection - all of it makes me hate humanity.

It makes me question who I am at core. Which, it is my understanding, is how old-school Republicans feel in the current political world.

And yet, going back to Costco, yet I am drawn back time and again by the 50-gallon jars of pickles, the 84 dozen organic eggs, the 600 boxes of Kleenex. We really do go through them.

In fact, now that I think about this, I'm pretty sure we blow our noses a lot more than normal people. Seriously. And in related news, Jordan, who has had a runny nose since he started daycare, has recently taken to walking up to you, pointing to his nose, and saying, "Blow me!"

On this trip, however, I didn't buy paper products because our coupons for those don't start until January 5.

In other words, Costco, I can't quit you.

One of the things I did purchase was a tremendous box of Dr. Praeger's veggie burgers. It turns out I quite like them, as do Jordan and Betty. Tasty, and you have all those healthy veggies squeezed into one convenient patty!

It's lucky we like them - I bought them on a whim (I'm breezy!) - because, if you are familiar with Coscto-sized anything, you know I have approximately 3 trillion of those patties in my possession.

Something I will share with you, based on recent experience, however, is as follows: Just because they cook very nicely under the broiler in your toaster oven at home - as per the instructions on the box - does not mean that you can just pop them sideways in the toaster at work.

As per nobody's instructions and against the cautions of your more sensible colleagues.

Tuesday, January 03, 2012

He's also gotten back to wanting to read "Where's My Potty?" (to Nick's chagrin) on the regular.

This, to my mind, proves two things: One, he is inching towards potty training. And two, the Lisa Family Force is strong with this one.

He still likes to list where we don't poop. "We don't poop on the couch! We don't poop in Nana's shoe!"

No, we certainly don't, my friend.

So the other day, Australian Builder's dog Tiga pooped on the rug. She's getting old, and she wasn't feeling well. She was terrified. It was clearly an accident.

Jordan was the one who discovered it. He said, "Somebody pooped on the rug!"

Now, you or I would've seen it and realized immediately that Tiga had done it. But in Jordan's world, there was a houseful of possibilities. Was it Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick? Daddy in the kitchen with the roll of toilet paper?

Nick explained that it was Tiga who pooped on the rug, and it was an accident. We all have accidents sometimes.

Mine tend towards the spilling of beverages and walking into walls, but I suppose you never know.

In further poop news, we now announce when we're going to the bathroom to poop. In the toilet. "I'm just going to the bathroom to have a poop in the toilet! I like to poop in the toilet!"

Jordan has gotten fascinated with this.

The other day Nick was looking for a little privacy. I know he wanted to head in there with the Sunday paper and enjoy some manly alone time. Even though I keep telling him it causes varicose veins and the toilet is no place to sit for an extended period of time.

It's true. Seriously. Plus, I just think the fact that men do this by choice is fucking weird.

Anyway, Jordan shot that all to hell by making a beeline for the bathroom as soon as he realized what Nick was up to.

They emerged in much less time than it might take to read the front page of the Times.

"Do you know how hard it is to take a poop with someone staring at you?"

"As a matter of fact..."

"And then, as soon as I did, he handed me one square of toilet paper and said, 'Get up, Daddy! I want to see!'"